The Healing Game
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: A visitor from Watson's past shows up and Jealous!Holmes is jealous, Mrs. Hudson is amused and Gladstone is killed, again. Slash.


Title: The Healing Game  
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009 (contains some book canon)  
Rating: PG-13  
Genre: Romance/Humor  
Word Count: 2,496  
Pairings: Watson/other, implied Watson/Holmes (slash)  
Summary: A visitor from Watson's past shows up and Jealous!Holmes is jealous, Mrs. Hudson is amused and Gladstone is killed, again.

o0o

The case doesn't end well.

The perpetrator hangs himself before arrest. The accomplice takes a shot at Watson that grazes his cheek and Holmes is rather sure the hedges surrounding the crime scene are _Liqustrum Vicaryri_ and not _Micanthus Purpurasens_ as originally described.

"Hedges?" Watson asks tiredly, holding a blood-stained handkerchief to the shallow cut on his face.

"Nothing wrong with getting all the facts straight," Holmes replies haughtily, opening the door to their lodgings with an easy twist of his key.

Despite the late hour, Mrs. Hudson is up and waiting for them. She takes their coats, tut-tuts over Watson's hurt and nods toward the sitting room. "There's a gentleman here to see you, Doctor. He's been very patient even though I told him it might be hours of waiting."

Watson makes a face at Holmes, as if to ask who could it possibly be and for the first time ever, maybe, Holmes is stumped.

"I hope it's not a patient," Watson mumbles, stuffing the impromptu bandage in his pocket and straightening out his coat nonetheless. He limps into the sitting room with Holmes following curiously and stops dead in his tracks at the sight of their guest.

At first glance, the man is an unsophisticated-looking fellow, a year or two younger than Watson, with handsome features and wearing what would pass for Sunday best in the far suburbs of the middle country. But a second glance reveals much more and Holmes sees his ramrod straight back as he rises and a tan that matches Watson's, brown face and brown hands with bright white skin at the wrists.

"Major," he says, a bit breathlessly, staring at Watson with eyes that are as bright as a sunrise. He almost salutes, thinks better of it and holds out his hand instead.

Watson's mouth drops open and his face suddenly takes on the most extraordinary light. He doesn't take the offered hand but instead pulls the man into a wild, undignified embrace, eyes closed, hands patting everywhere and the young man puffs with laughter against Watson's shoulder.

Holmes watches this scene with unease. This is all very unlike what he's used to seeing in his sitting room, with his Watson.

"Oh, sir. How well you look," the young man murmurs, still ensconced in Watson's arms. "I've prayed time and again to see you this way."

Pulling away, Watson looks close to tears. "It's all your doing, my dear. If I'd known you were here you wouldn't have had to sit all this time. Why didn't you write and tell me you were on your way?" Watson laughs breathlessly and embraces him again. "Never mind. We'll have a sit now and you will tell me everything."

Beaming, Watson drags him to the dining table and asks for tea. Pulls Holmes over as well and introduces the man as if he's showing Holmes one of the great wonders of the world. "Holmes, this is my dear friend and compatriot, Charles Murray. Murray, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Who is not his dear friend and compatriot, I suppose," adds Holmes, shaking the man's hand, noting without interest that he has the hands of a farmer. "So you are the famous Murray."

"And you are the famous Sherlock Holmes. It's a practical vaudeville show in here now," Murray rejoins and Watson laughs heartily.

Holmes doesn't laugh. In fact, he's disliking this scene more and more every minute. It doesn't get any better when the tea comes and Watson pours for Murray, laughs with Murray, fawns like an idiot over Murray and forgets Holmes completely. The doctor hangs on every word of the other man, so much so that Holmes is forced to chew on his pipe so as not to say something he'll regret.

As to why he's here at all: "It's just a minor thing with the property lines and taxes on my house," says Murray to a rapt Watson and Holmes wonders exactly what the doctor finds so enthralling about the dratted fellow's bureaucratic issues. "But I'm stuck here while they sort it out. They say two days, so I thought while I was here I'd come to see you."

"Of course. And now you must stay here," Watson interjects brightly.

Holmes' mouth drops open and the pipe falls into his hand. "Here? We have no room here."

A pause, and Watson bestows a dark glare on Holmes. "Charles will stay in my room for as long as he pleases."

"My dear Watson ..."

"I pay my share of the rent for my room and I'll have over whomever I wish," Watson says in a voice that would make a tiger slink off in terror. He smiles again at Murray who's been watching the exchange with nervous glances at both of them. "Did you bring your valise, Charles?"

"Oh. Yes, but not to stay here," Murray says hurriedly. "Honestly, I don't want to be any trouble."

"He doesn't want to be any trouble," Holmes chimes in. "You should abide by his wishes."

The icy expression on Watson's face is like nothing Holmes has ever seen before and he hopes he never sees it again. "Come upstairs," he says to Murray, holding out his hand to help him up, then twining the other man's arm through his own. "I'd like to speak to you without any more untoward interruptions."

Murray smiles weakly at Holmes as Watson virtually drags him way. "It was nice to meet you, sir."

Holmes doesn't respond. He stuffs his unlit pipe back into his mouth and slouches more deeply into the chair.

"What a nice young man," Mrs. Hudson says later as she gathers up the tea. "And wasn't the doctor just over the moon with him? How sweet."

Her tone is just this side of malicious and Holmes makes a mental note to shoot another hole into her walls. Maybe two. "Aren't you the precious Nanny. Where's supper?"

She snickers. "I've sent it upstairs. Maybe the doctor and Mr. Murray will send you some." She takes off again and Holmes is going to blow a positive _crater_ into every damned door in the house.

He glances upstairs, his mouth twisting with ire. Hedges aside, this might be the worst end-of-case ever.

o0o

Holmes tries to ignore the closed door of Watson's bedroom and the sounds that start coming out of it around midnight.

It's positively indecent, that's what it is. Watson, who has claimed his vices are limited to gambling and losing his temper has underquoted them by exactly one. But what a vice, and Holmes winces again after hearing a long moan come from the other bedroom.

_These rooms are attached!_ Holmes wants to howl down the hallway, but refrains with a superhuman effort. Is _this_ what those bastards do in the Army? If so, he seriously has to reconsider his yearly contribution to Her Majesty's coffers.

What he doesn't think about is the hot clenching in his gut, the way his throat is almost too tight to swallow past. There is no emotion more ridiculous than jealousy and look what Watson has reduced him to. It's a crime of sorts and Watson should be deeply ashamed of himself at what he's done to his efficient friend, the once finely-tuned Sherlock Holmes.

The indignation only makes him feel better for about thirty seconds. Obviously he's made a serious miscalculation regarding Watson's affections. Not that he and Watson had ever been intimate, at least in _that_ way but there was something to be said for the platonic or so Holmes tries to convince himself when he hears Watson shout something that sounds like an endearment.

Holmes drops into his chair and picks up the violin. Scratches tunelessly at it as Gladstone waddles over and gently paws his leg in an almost comforting gesture. "Don't worry, poor creature. When Watson abandons us for the turnip farm, I'll care for you. Here, have a snack." Holmes feeds Gladstone one of his opiate-laced biscuits and sighs when the bulldog plops like a stone to the floor. "How you cheer me, dear beast. Rest well."

The noises continue for the rest of the night. Holmes violin plays alongside the passionate encounter in Watson's room while downstairs, Mrs. Hudson is the only one happily asleep.

The world, Holmes thinks sadly, is deeply out of sorts.

o0o

Breakfast the next morning is an uncomfortable affair.

Watson and Murray eat like two men starved, exchange lingering glances over the teacups and how much of an idiot do they think he is, Holmes fumes, noting with boiling rage that they are holding hands under the table.

Holmes doesn't feel bad about staring at them with acidic displeasure and, unfortunately, they don't mind ignoring him.

Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, appears to be having the time of her life. "Here, Mr. Murray, have some more cranberry scone. They are hard to come by and we can't let them go to waste. Some whipped cream?"

"I'd like one," Holmes snaps. "With cream."

"We're fresh out," she replies, putting it in front of Murray who accepts it with a grateful nod. "Are you two going out to see the sights today?"

"Yes," Watson and Holmes reply simultaneously. Watson rolls his eyes at Holmes. "Myself and Charles are going out. I'm going to show him the city."

Holmes gazes narrowly at him. "Our case isn't finished, Watson."

"Bullocks," Watson replies, tossing his napkin down. "You can figure out the hedges on your own. Come on, dearest fellow," he says to Murray. "Let's go see the palaces."

Holmes snorts, about to make a cutting comment about country bumpkins visiting the Queen when Watson squeezes his shoulder ... _hard_. "We'll talk later, Holmes."

"I don't want to talk to you," Holmes replies petulantly, but is oddly relieved. "I'm busy for the next month. Make an appointment tomorrow."

But they are both gone. Mrs. Hudson hums as she cleans up the table, laughing under her breath. "My, my," she giggles. "If you could only see your face."

"I won't forget this, Nanny," he growls, but she only chuckles more making him decide that he hates the entire world.

Holmes spends the next few hours wandering over to Scotland Yard where he bullies Lestrade mercilessly noting that even this favorite pastime has lost some of its amusing luster. He's tossed out on his ear by the early afternoon and it's back to Baker Street where Watson is waiting for him in the sitting room, alone.

Thank God. "Heavens. Did the horse cart come and take your playmate away?"

"Be quiet and sit down, Holmes." Watson's expression is so terribly serious, Holmes finds it hard to do anything but obey. "I'm only going to say this once. If you continue to act foolishly around Charles, our friendship will be in jeopardy."

Now this is just rich, Holmes thinks, rolling his eyes. "Why? Because I dampen your carnal enthusiasm with ordinary observations?"

"No. Because Charles is the only reason I'm sitting here today," Watson continues quietly, his eyes never leaving Holmes. "Perhaps I didn't effectively communicate in my writing exactly what he did to save me in Afghanistan. Needless to say, he put my life and needs before his own, starved and thirsted so I wouldn't and refused to let me die even though that might have been the better option." Watson pauses with a shaky inhale. "He came to me in India as well, after hearing I'd fallen ill, assigning himself to that hellhole just to be able to care for me. And nurse me he did, night and day for four hellish months, until he caught the damned fever himself and I had to leave him there, as I'd recovered but he hadn't. Twice, he has gone to hell and back to save me, without a thought for himself."

With a mindless tug on the hem of his cuffs, Holmes listens.

"Therefore, Holmes, while Charles is here for these few hours, I am his. Whatever he wants, he'll get because it is the very least I can do for someone who has done so much for me without the slightest hesitation or hope of reward. If that includes carnal enthusiasm, so be it."

A bell goes off inside of Holmes' brain. "You're not in love with him," Holmes breathes. "Not the way he loves you."

With tight frown, Watson shakes his head. "I love him and enjoy his company dearly, but no, I am not in love with him. And while he may have certain deep attachments to me, he _is_ due to be married in a few months time. So whatever fears you have, you may put them aside."

"I have no fears," Holmes lies quickly.

"Of course," Watson sighs.

The door opens and Murray walks in, waving a sheaf of papers. "Finally. God, I wonder how anyone gets anything gets done in this place."

Watson quickly rises and congratulates him. Murray peers at Watson adoringly and Holmes suddenly wonders if it's not foolish to despise someone merely because they merely admire the same fine qualities in a person as you yourself do.

"Very good, Mr. Murray," Holmes says and Watson turns to stare at him, half-irritated, half-fearful. "But you certainly can't leave our fine city until you've experienced the opera. Watson, in my drawer I have two tickets for this evening's showing of _Dido and Aeneas_, a rather short, melodramatic piece that I'm not particularly fond of but as it's in English, I think it might be perfect for a novice to the art."

The melting look of gratitude Watson bestows on him is recompense enough for the annoyances of the past day.

Murray looks surprised as well as pleased. "That would be very nice, Mr. Holmes. Are you sure?"

"I despise romances, so you'll be taking the tickets off my hands," Holmes says with a dismissive wave. "You might even say you'll be _saving_ me from it, Mr. Murray. "

Watson's grateful expression turns into a scowl. After retrieving the tickets, he shrugs on his greatcoat and puts on his hat before taking Murray by the arm. "We'll talk again later, Holmes."

"About those hedges, I hope. They are bothering me greatly."

The door closes behind them and Holmes lights his pipe, suddenly and wonderfully, relaxed.

Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, has discovered his 'rearrangement' of her wallpaper as well as Gladstone's still form, not to mention his experiment on the digestive system of the Norwegian ship rat. There are terrified shrieks, abusive words and general mayhem and Sherlock Holmes breathes it all in like the ephemeral ambrosia it is.

All, at last, is right again with the world.

o0o

end

Reviews are always loved. :D


End file.
